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“ HOW COME WE NEVER EVEN DATED? ” #Narumi Gen

synopsis: you had only planned to volunteer for a day, but your simple act of kindness soon becomes the anchor in someone else's fragile world—little did you know that fleeting moment would change everything.

content: fem-reader word count: 8.8k a/n: part 1 of my oneshot! I definitely put way too much thought into this. does narumi sound off-character (occ) to you guys?? I still have no clue how long I want this to be—I gave up halfway because of writer’s block ;(

Death had a tendency to sneak up on people when they least expected it. In this case for Narumi, he had lost his parents to a kaiju cataclysm—not in some heroic last stand or meaningful sacrifice, but in the mundane terror of being in the wrong place when a Category 4 tore through their district. He doesn't have a home now, no place to go back to, no warm kitchen smells or familiar creaking floorboards. No memories of his blood relatives that weren't already being devoured by the flames that had consumed everything he'd once known.

Most kids his age would have crumbled when they lost their parents, would have screamed and wailed and demanded answers from a universe that had none to give. But for him, he only felt... empty. Hollow, like someone had scooped out his insides with a rusty spoon and left nothing but echoing silence where his heart used to beat. The oldest memory he had now was a town reduced to ashes, skeletal remains of buildings reaching toward a blood-red sky, and the acrid taste of smoke that still haunted his dreams.

He couldn't find a place for himself in this orphanage—Saint Catherine's Home for Displaced Children, they called it, as if giving it a fancy name could mask the fact that it was just another dumping ground for society's unwanted. Without a relative or anyone to take him in, he was placed there like a piece of furniture being moved to storage. The other children whispered about him in corners, called him the quiet one or that antisocial weird kid who never cries.

The caretakers didn't outright ignore him, but he knew they found him... difficult. Unresponsive. A boy who wouldn't break down properly, wouldn't give them the satisfaction of healing his trauma with their practiced sympathy and arts-and-crafts therapy sessions. He had no one to rely on, no shoulder to cry on, no gentle voice telling him everything would be okay.

So he had to find his own strength to survive.

Narumi threw himself into everything with the desperate intensity of a drowning man clinging to driftwood. Academics, physical fitness, even the stupid group activities they forced on them—he excelled at it all, kept bringing home results time and time again. Perfect test scores, first place in track meets, leadership roles in student council. His small hands would shake as he presented each certificate, each trophy, each piece of evidence that he was worth something.

But apparently showing effort was more valued in this world than producing results. Even though he got the results, even though he proved over and over that he could be the best, the world still felt unappreciative. The caretakers would pat him on the head with the same mechanical gentleness they showed all the children, their smiles never quite reaching their eyes. Good job, Narumi. You're such a responsible boy.

Responsible. The word tasted like ash in his mouth.

The other kids his age were adopted by families who wanted sweet children, damaged children they could fix, children who would cry into their new parents' shoulders and whisper thank you with trembling lips. Nobody wanted the twelve-year-old boy who had already learned how to survive on his own, who looked at the world through eyes too old and too sharp for his face.

Until he met you.

Your arrival at Saint Catherine's wasn't announced with fanfare, wasn't marked by any particular significance that Narumi could discern from his position hunched over his Nintendo DS in the corner of the common room. You were just another teenager with a cardboard box of donations, probably some rich kid doing community service to pad out college applications. He'd seen dozens like you over the years—guilt-faced adolescents who would spend an afternoon here before returning to their intact families and functional lives.

You were talking to Sister Margaret, one of the caretakers who actually seemed to give a damn about her job, though Narumi had never seen the point in getting attached to any of the staff. They rotated out too frequently, moved on to better positions or burned out from the thankless work of managing society's cast-offs.

"Oh, that kid?" Sister Margaret was saying, following your gaze to where Narumi sat surrounded by a small crowd of younger children who watched with rapt attention as his fingers flew across the controls. "He's a bit of an outlier. He's a troublemaker—been suspended from school multiple times due to misconduct."

Narumi's jaw tightened imperceptibly, though his hands never stopped moving. Misconduct. As if defending himself from bullies who thought orphans made easy targets was some kind of moral failing. As if refusing to participate in group therapy sessions where they wanted him to share his feelings was somehow antisocial behavior.

"Really?" Your voice held a note of skepticism that made Narumi's ear twitch despite himself. "He doesn't look like a troublemaker."

Through his peripheral vision, he could see you studying him with an intensity that made something uncomfortable squirm in his chest. Most adults gave him a cursory glance and moved on, content to accept whatever the caretakers told them about the difficult children. But you were actually looking at him, taking in the way his shoulders curved protectively around his gaming device, the careful distance he maintained between himself and even the younger kids who clearly idolized him.

That boy? Gen thought with bitter amusement as Sister Margaret launched into her standard spiel about traumatized children and behavioral issues. A troublemaker? He wanted to laugh. If only she knew how many nights he'd spent mediating disputes between the younger kids, how many times he'd shared his limited allowance money to buy batteries for their broken toys, how carefully he'd crafted his reputation as the resident gaming expert just to give them something to look forward to.

But let her think what she wanted. Let them all think he was some kind of delinquent. It was easier than explaining that he'd learned early that emotional distance was the only reliable defense against disappointment.

Why does he look so sad? you wondered, tilting your head as you watched Gen attempt to explain the controls of his game to a cluster of eight-year-olds who hung on his every word. There was something in his posture, the careful way he held himself, that spoke of a deep loneliness he probably wasn't even aware of showing.

Looking back on it later, there was no particular reason Narumi should have found you interesting. You weren't special, weren't remarkable in any way that would typically catch his attention. You wore the same kind of clothes as every other teenager who showed up to drop off donations—jeans and a sweater that probably cost more than his monthly allowance, sneakers that had never walked through anything worse than suburban sidewalks.

He'd had multiple adults try to connect with him over the years, guidance counselors and social workers and well-meaning volunteers who all seemed to think they could crack his shell with the right combination of patience and therapeutic techniques. All of them had been shut down, dismissed with the cold efficiency he'd perfected over years of practice.

He simply didn't care about their efforts to help him. Why should he? It wasn't like he'd grown attached to any of the orphanages he'd been shuffled through—Saint Catherine's was just the latest in a series of temporary stops, each one passing him off to the next when he became too much trouble to handle. He'd learned to survive on his own strength; none of them had done a thing for him except provide basic food and shelter.

And you were definitely no different. What good would approaching him do? Were you trying to prove that you could reach the unreachable kid? What a waste of time.

But then you did something unexpected.

Instead of launching into some prepared speech about being there if he needed to talk or understanding what he was going through, you simply walked over and crouched down beside his makeshift gaming circle.

"Is that the new Fire Emblem?" you asked casually, nodding toward his DS screen where he was in the middle of a particularly challenging tactical battle.

Narumi's fingers stilled on the controls. He looked up at you properly for the first time, taking in your face with the same analytical intensity he applied to everything else. You didn't have the artificially bright smile that most volunteers wore, didn't seem to be performing kindness for an invisible audience. You just looked... curious.

"Yeah," he said slowly, suspicion threading through his voice. "You play?"

"My little brother does. He's been stuck on this same level for weeks, keeps complaining that the enemy AI is cheating." You settled more comfortably on the floor, seemingly unbothered by the stares of the younger children who weren't used to seeing teenagers willingly sit in their circle. "He's ten," you added, "and absolutely convinced that he's going to be a professional gamer when he grows up."

Something in Narumi's chest loosened slightly. You weren't here to save him or fix his trauma—you were just making conversation about something he actually cared about. It was such a foreign concept that he didn't know quite how to respond.

"The AI isn't cheating," he said finally, turning the screen so you could see his battle formation. "Your brother's probably not managing his resources properly. See, if you position your units like this..."

For the next twenty minutes, Narumi found himself explaining advanced gaming strategies to someone who actually listened, who asked intelligent questions and didn't once mention his situation or try to psychoanalyze his attachment to fictional characters. You even laughed at his dry commentary about the game's more ridiculous plot points, a sound that made something warm unfurl in his chest before he ruthlessly stomped it back down.

When you finally had to leave, you simply said, "Thanks for the tips. I'll have to pass them along to my brother—though he'll probably accuse you of showing off."

"I don't show off," Narumi replied automatically, then paused as he realized he was almost smiling. "I just don't see the point in doing something badly."

"Hmm." You studied his face with that same thoughtful expression from before. "I'll be back next week with more donations. Maybe you could show me that tactical formation thing again? My brother would never believe me if I tried to explain it myself."

And then you were gone, leaving Narumi staring at the spot where you'd been sitting and wondering why the common room suddenly felt so much emptier.

...

You kept your promise. The following week, you returned with another box of your brother's outgrown clothes and a genuine interest in hearing about Narumi's latest gaming achievements. You didn't make a big production of it, didn't announce your intentions to help the troubled orphan boy. You simply settled beside him on the floor and asked about his progress in Fire Emblem as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

"My brother says you're probably making up those completion times," you said teasingly as Narumi demonstrated a particularly complex strategy involving multiple character classes and carefully timed special attacks. "He thinks it's impossible to beat the final boss in under twenty minutes."

Narumi's eyes narrowed, a competitive gleam sparking to life. "Your brother doubts my skills?"

"Well," you said diplomatically, "he's never actually seen you play. For all he knows, you could be some kind of gaming urban legend."

That got a reaction. Narumi spent the next hour proving every claim he'd made, his fingers flying across the controls with a precision that bordered on artistry. The younger children had long since wandered off to other activities, but you remained focused on his demonstration, occasionally asking questions that proved you were actually paying attention.

"Okay," you said when he finally paused to catch his breath, "I'm convinced. You're definitely not making this up."

Something warm and unfamiliar bloomed in Narumi's chest at your obvious admiration. When was the last time someone had been genuinely impressed by his abilities? The caretakers praised him for academic achievements with the same lukewarm enthusiasm they showed everyone, and his classmates either ignored him or viewed his success as grounds for resentment. But you were looking at him like he'd just performed magic.

"It's not that impressive," he said, but the protest lacked his usual bite.

"My brother would probably cry if he heard you say that." You grinned, and Narumi found himself fascinated by the way your whole face transformed with genuine amusement. "He thinks gaming is the highest form of art."

"Smart kid," Narumi murmured, then caught himself. When had he started... enjoying these conversations?

Over the following weeks, you established a pattern. Every afternoon, you'd arrive with donations and seek him out wherever he happened to be lurking. Sometimes you'd find him in the common room with his usual gaming circle, sometimes tucked away in the library where he'd discovered they had a surprisingly decent collection of comics, occasionally hidden in the small courtyard behind the building where he liked to practice his handheld gaming in natural light.

You never seemed put off by his initial prickliness, never took his sardonic comments personally or tried to correct his attitude. Instead, you met his defensive sarcasm with gentle teasing, his skeptical questions with patient answers, his obvious hunger for recognition with the kind of casual praise that didn't feel like pity.

"You know," you said one afternoon as you watched him absolutely destroy a boss battle that had been giving him trouble for days, "you'd probably be really good at chess. It's the same kind of strategic thinking, just without the flashy graphics."

Narumi's paused his game to give you a look of profound disbelief. "Chess is for old people."

"Chess is for people who like winning," you corrected. "Besides, doesn't your favorite Fire Emblem character use chess metaphors for like half his battle dialogue?"

"...That's different."

"Uh-huh." You were clearly trying not to smile. "What if I brought a chess set next week? Just to see if you're as good at it as you are at tactical RPGs."

"I don't need to prove anything to you," Narumi said automatically, but there was no real hostility in it. It was more like a reflex, the same way he might duck if someone threw something at his head.

"Of course not," you agreed easily. "I just thought it might be fun. My brother's been begging me to learn so he has someone to play with besides our dad, who lets him win constantly."

Fun?

"...Fine," he said finally, trying to ignore the way his pulse had picked up speed. "But don't expect me to go easy on you."

Your smile was brighter than sunshine. "I wouldn't dream of it."

...

True to your word, you arrived with a magnetic travel chess set tucked under your arm alongside your usual donation box. Narumi had spent the entire week pretending he wasn't looking forward to seeing you, maintaining his routine of academic excellence and social isolation while trying to ignore the strange anticipation that seemed to be building in his chest.

It doesn't mean anything, he told himself as he found excuses to linger in the common room around the time you usually arrived. She's just another volunteer who'll get bored and move on eventually.

But when you walked through the front door and immediately sought him out with your eyes, when your face lit up the moment you spotted him hunched over his DS in the corner, something in Narumi's chest did a little flip that he absolutely refused to acknowledge.

"Ready to have your ego crushed?" you asked cheerfully as you set up the chess board on a nearby table.

"You're awfully confident for someone who's never seen me play," Narumi replied, but he was already moving toward the table with more enthusiasm than he'd shown for anything in months.

The game that followed was a revelation. You weren't a particularly skilled chess player—your strategy was decent but predictable, your endgame weak—but you were engaged in a way that Gen had never experienced before. You asked questions about his moves, complimented his tactics even when they were being used to dismantle your defenses, and laughed delightedly when he pulled off a particularly elegant checkmate sequence.

"Okay," you said as you surveyed the board where your king lay definitively defeated, "that was embarrassing. But also kind of amazing? How did you see that fork coming six moves ago?"

Narumi felt heat crawl up his neck at the genuine admiration in your voice. "It's just... pattern recognition," he said, using his standard explanation while trying to ignore how pleased your praise made him feel. "Once you understand the underlying patterns, chess becomes fairly predictable."

"Right, 'fairly predictable,'" you repeated dryly. "I'm sure that's what every chess grandmaster tells themselves."

"I'm not a grandmaster."

"Yet, want to play again?" you asked, already resetting the board. "Maybe this time I'll last longer than fifteen minutes."

They played three more games, each one ending in decisive victory for Narumi but somehow feeling less like conquest and more like... fun. You celebrated his clever moves even when they were destroying your position, asked him to explain his thought process, treated each defeat as a learning experience rather than a source of frustration.

By the time Sister Margaret announced that visiting hours were ending, Narumi realized he'd spent the entire afternoon smiling.

"Same time next week?" you asked as you packed up the chess set, your tone carefully casual in a way that suggested his answer mattered more than you were letting on.

"If you want," Narumi said, aiming for indifference and missing by several miles. "I mean, someone has to teach you proper endgame technique."

Your smile was radiant. "It's a date."

Narumi spent the next week replaying that phrase in his mind, analyzing it from every possible angle. *It's a date.* Obviously you hadn't meant it romantically—you were sixteen to his twelve, practically an adult compared to his awkward pre-teen existence. But there had been something in your tone, a warmth that suggested you genuinely enjoyed spending time with him.

Why? he wondered as he lay awake staring at the ceiling of his shared dormitory room. What could you possibly get out of these visits? You weren't earning community service hours, weren't affiliated with any religious organization, weren't studying child psychology or social work. You just... came. Every week, without fail, bringing donations that seemed almost secondary to the time you spent talking to him about games and the kind of random topics that had never interested the adults in his life.

For the first time since his parents died, Narumi found himself looking forward to something.

...

Friday became the highlight of Narumi's week, though he would have rather died than admit it out loud. He developed elaborate pretenses for his anticipation—telling himself he was just eager to demonstrate his intellectual superiority, or that he enjoyed having someone to talk to.

You, for your part, seemed to sense the shift in his attitude without commenting on it directly. You began staying longer during your visits, sometimes arriving early with the excuse of wanting to help sort donations but really just to spend more time talking with him. You started bringing things specifically chosen with his interests in mind—new puzzle games, even a gaming magazine subscription that you claimed your brother had "grown out of" but Narumi suspected you'd bought specifically for him.

The truth was becoming harder to ignore with each passing week: Narumi was falling for you. Hard.

It was ridiculous, he knew. You talked about high school drama and college applications and part-time jobs—adult concerns that felt impossibly distant from his world of dormitory curfews and supervised study halls. You had a life outside these walls, friends who didn't know his name, experiences he could barely imagine.

But knowledge of the impossibility didn't make his feelings any less real.

He noticed everything about you now—the way you unconsciously tucked your hair behind your ear when you were concentrating on a chess move, the soft sound of your laughter when he made one of his dry observations about the other children, the gentle patience in your voice when you explained some concept from your world that he didn't understand. He memorized the exact shade of your eyes, the way your face lit up when you walked into the common room and spotted him in his usual corner.

Narumi had never experienced attraction before—had barely understood the concept beyond clinical definitions in health textbooks. But whatever this feeling was, this constant awareness of your presence, this desperate hunger for your attention and approval, it was consuming him from the inside out.

He started having dreams about you. Innocent ones, mostly—fantasies where he was older, where the age gap didn't matter, where you looked at him with something more than fond affection. Dreams where he was tall enough to stand eye-to-eye with you, confident enough to tell you how he felt, worthy enough to deserve your romantic attention.

He'd wake from these dreams with his heart racing and shame burning in his chest. What kind of pathetic kid develops feelings for someone so obviously out of his league? What kind of delusional fantasy was he living in?

But then it would come, and you'd walk through those doors with that bright smile reserved just for him, and all his rational self-criticism would evaporate like morning mist.

"My brother finally beat that level you helped him with," you said, settling beside him on the floor where he was demonstrating advanced combos to his audience of younger kids. "He's been bragging about it to everyone who'll listen. I think you've created a monster."

"Good," Narumi said, pleased despite himself. "Confidence is important in gaming. Too many players second-guess themselves and lose opportunities."

"Speaking of confidence," you said with a teasing smile, "he's been asking if he can meet you sometime. He's convinced you're some kind of gaming legend."

Narumi's heart did a complicated flip at the thought of meeting your family, of being invited into that part of your life. But the rational part of his brain immediately began cataloging all the ways such a meeting could go wrong.

"He wouldn't be impressed," Narumi said, his voice carefully neutral. "I'm just better at pattern recognition than most people."

"Right, and Mozart was just better at pressing piano keys than most people." You rolled your eyes affectionately. "You know, false modesty doesn't suit you. You're allowed to acknowledge that you're exceptional at things."

Exceptional. The word sent warmth flooding through Gen's chest, even as he tried to maintain his composure. Coming from you, praise felt like sunlight after months of winter.

"Your brother sounds like he has good taste in role models," he said, aiming for casual and missing by several miles.

"He does," you agreed, and there was something in your tone that made Narumi look up sharply. You were studying his face with that thoughtful expression he'd come to recognize, but there was something new underneath it—a kind of careful consideration that made his pulse quicken.

"Narumi," you said slowly, "can I ask you something?"

He nodded, not trusting his voice.

"What do you want to do when you get out of here? I mean, long-term. Have you thought about careers, or college, or...?"

The question caught him off guard. Most adults who bothered asking about his future did so in the context of immediate practicalities—what high school he wanted to attend, what subjects he should focus on, what kind of part-time job he might be suited for. But you were asking about dreams, about the kind of life he wanted to build for himself.

"I don't know," he said honestly. "I've never really thought that far ahead."

It was a lie, but a necessary one. The truth was that Narumi had elaborate fantasies about his future, detailed plans that always seemed to revolve around becoming someone worthy of your attention. Sometimes he imagined becoming a professional gamer, achieving the kind of fame and recognition that would make you proud to know him. Sometimes he pictured himself as a successful businessman or scientist, accomplished enough to offer you the kind of life you deserved.

But he could never voice these dreams, could never admit that every vision of his future included you in some capacity.

"You should," you said gently. "You're too smart and too talented to just drift through life without a plan. You could do anything you set your mind to."

"Anything?" Narumi asked before he could stop himself.

"Anything," you confirmed with absolute certainty.

For a moment, Narumi allowed himself to imagine telling you the truth—about his feelings, about the dreams that revolved around you, about the way your weekly visits had become the center of his entire world. For a moment, he let himself wonder what you might say if you knew how completely you'd captured his twelve-year-old heart.

But reality crashed back down before he could work up the courage to speak. You were sixteen, practically an adult. You had your own life, your own plans, your own future that didn't include a damaged orphan boy with an inappropriate crush.

"I should probably figure that out," he said instead, his voice carefully neutral.

"You've got time," you said with that gentle smile that made his chest ache. "But when you do decide, I hope you'll aim high. You deserve good things, Narumi."

I deserve you, he thought but didn't say. Instead, he nodded and returned his attention to his DS, trying to ignore the way your casual faith in his potential made him feel simultaneously hopeful and heartbroken.

...

The conversation about his future lingered in Narumi's mind over the following weeks, mixing with his growing awareness of your approaching departure to create a constant undercurrent of anxiety. You'd mentioned that your family would be moving next fall, which meant you had maybe six months left of visits. Six months before you disappeared from his life forever.

The thought was unbearable.

Narumi found himself trying to memorize everything about your time together—he started hoarding these moments like a dragon hoarding treasure, desperate to collect enough memories to sustain him through the loneliness that would follow your departure.

But then you said something that changed everything.

"I've been thinking about what I want to do after graduation," you mentioned casually during one of your visits, setting up the chess board with practiced efficiency. "My parents want me to apply to traditional colleges, but I'm considering something different."

"Like what?" Narumi asked, though he was only half-listening. He was too busy watching the graceful movements of your hands as you arranged the pieces, trying to commit every detail to memory.

"The Defense Force," you said, and suddenly you had his complete attention.

Narumi's hands stilled on his own pieces. "The Defense Force?"

"Yeah." You looked up with that bright smile that never failed to make his heart skip. "I know it sounds crazy, but I've been reading about their recruitment programs, and they're actually looking for people to apply."

The Defense Force. The elite military organization responsible for protecting Japan from kaiju threats. It was dangerous work, the kind of career that came with a high mortality rate and no guarantees of coming home alive.

Narumi felt something cold and sharp twist in his stomach. "That's... that's dangerous."

"Well, yeah," you said with the casual fearlessness that only someone who'd never faced real danger could possess. "But it's also important. And the training programs are supposed to be incredible—they teach you everything from advanced combat techniques to disaster management to emergency medical care. Plus, the benefits are amazing, and they help pay for continuing education."

You were excited about this. Narumi could see it in the way your eyes lit up, in the animated gestures you made as you described the recruitment materials you'd been studying. This wasn't some idle fantasy—you were seriously considering risking your life to fight monsters.

The rational part of Narumi's brain understood that you had every right to make your own choices about your future. You were intelligent and capable and perfectly qualified to make decisions about your own life. But the part of him that had grown to depend on your weekly visits, the part that had started building fantasies around a future that included you, was screaming in protest.

"What about college?" he asked, his voice carefully controlled. "You said your parents wanted you to apply to universities."

"They do. But I think I want something more... immediate? More real?" You paused in your chess setup to look at him directly. "College feels like just more school, you know? Four more years of sitting in classrooms and writing papers about things other people discovered. The Defense Force would be different. It would be contributing to something that actually matters."

Narumi wanted to argue. He wanted to list all the reasons why joining the Defense Force was a terrible idea, all the safer career paths that would keep you alive and close to Tokyo. He wanted to beg you to reconsider, to choose something that wouldn't take you away from him permanently.

But he was twelve years old and you were sixteen, and he had no right to try to influence your life decisions. He had no right to any opinion about your future at all.

"That's... really cool," he said instead, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.

"You think so?" Your face lit up with pleasure at his apparent approval. "I was worried you might think it was stupid or reckless."

"I think you'd be good at it," Narumi said, because it was true even though it made his chest ache. "You're smart and... and brave."

"Brave?" You laughed, but there was a pleased flush spreading across your cheeks. "I don't know about brave. Maybe just tired of feeling useless."

Useless? Narumi stared at you in genuine bewilderment. How could you possibly think you were useless? You, who had single-handedly transformed his entire world just by showing up and caring about him? You, who had given him the first taste of genuine friendship he'd ever experienced?

"You're not useless," he said, the words carrying more intensity than he'd intended. "You're... you're the most important person I know."

The confession slipped out before he could stop it, carrying way too much emotion for what was supposed to be a casual conversation between friends. Narumi immediately felt heat flood his face as he realized what he'd revealed.

You were quiet for a long moment, studying his face with that thoughtful expression that always made him feel simultaneously seen and terrified. When you finally spoke, your voice was gentler than usual.

"Narumi," you said carefully, "you know that our friendship isn't going to end just because I join the Defense Force, right? I mean, it might be harder to visit regularly, but—"

"It's fine," Narumi interrupted, unable to bear whatever kind platitude you were building up to. "I understand. You have your own life to live."

"That's not what I meant—"

"I know what you meant." His voice came out sharper than he'd intended, defensive in the way it always got when he felt vulnerable. "You're trying to be nice about the fact that you're leaving. But you don't have to pretend that we'll stay in touch afterward. I'm not stupid."

"Gen—"

"Can we just play chess?" he asked, already moving his first pawn with jerky, agitated movements. "I don't want to talk about this anymore."

You looked like you wanted to argue, like you had more to say about the subject, but something in his expression must have warned you off. Instead, you made your own opening move and settled into the familiar rhythm of the game.

But the easy companionship of previous weeks was gone, replaced by an undercurrent of tension that made every move feel weighted with unspoken meaning. Narumi played more aggressively than usual, sacrificing pieces in risky gambits that reflected his internal emotional state. You responded with unusual defensiveness, as if you were trying to protect something precious from his attacks.

The game ended in stalemate—the first time neither of you had achieved a clear victory.

"Good game," you said quietly as you began putting the pieces away.

"Yeah," Narumi replied, though it had been anything but.

The silence stretched between you, heavy with all the things neither of you was saying. Finally, you cleared your throat.

"I haven't made any final decisions yet," you said. "About the Defense Force, I mean. I'm still researching, still thinking things through."

Narumi nodded without looking up from the chess board. "Whatever you choose," he said finally, "I hope it makes you happy."

It was the truth, even though it felt like swallowing glass to say it.

...

You continued your visits, but there was a new awkwardness between you that hadn't existed before. Narumi found himself holding back, afraid that too much enthusiasm or attachment would make his feelings obvious. You seemed to be doing the same, treating him with a careful gentleness that suggested you were aware of his emotional state even if you didn't fully understand it.

The easy intimacy of previous months was replaced by polite conversation. Narumi hated it, missed the natural flow of your interactions, but he didn't know how to bridge the gap without revealing more than he was prepared to share.

Then, in early spring, you arrived with news that shattered his carefully maintained emotional control.

"I got accepted," you said without preamble, your face glowing with excitement and pride. "Into the Defense Force training program. I start basic training right after graduation."

Narumi felt the world tilt sideways. He'd known this was coming, had been preparing himself for months, but the reality of it still hit him like a physical blow. You were really leaving. Not just moving to another city with your family, but joining an organization that would consume your entire life, that would train you to fight monsters and risk your life for strangers.

"Congratulations," he managed, his voice sounding strange and distant even to his own ears.

"Thank you!" You were practically vibrating with excitement, clearly having expected a more enthusiastic response. "I still can't believe it, honestly. The application process was so competitive, and the physical requirements were insane, but I made it. I'm actually going to be a Defense Force officer."

Narumi should have felt proud of you. Should have shared in your excitement, celebrated this achievement that clearly meant so much to you. Instead, all he could feel was a crushing sense of loss, as if you'd already disappeared from his life despite sitting right in front of him.

"When do you leave?" he asked.

"Training starts in June, so I'll be finishing up my visits here in a few weeks." Your excitement dimmed slightly as you seemed to remember the implications for your friendship. "I'm really going to miss our Fridays together."

Miss. As if your time together was already in the past, already relegated to fond memories rather than living reality.

"Yeah," Narumi said quietly. "Me too."

You reached across the table and squeezed his hand, the contact sending familiar electricity racing up his arm. "Hey, this doesn't have to be goodbye forever. I'll write when I can, and maybe once I'm settled in my assignment—"

"Don't." The word came out harder than Narumi had intended, cutting through your hopeful reassurances like a blade. "Don't make promises you can't keep."

"But—"

"I'm happy for you," he said, pulling his hand free from yours and standing abruptly. "I really am. This is what you want, and you deserve to get what you want. But don't pretend that we're going to stay in touch afterward. We both know how these things work."

He was being unfair, he knew. You hadn't done anything wrong except pursue your dreams and try to soften the blow of your departure with kind intentions. But the pain of losing you was so acute that he needed to create distance, needed to start the process of emotional detachment before it destroyed him completely.

"That's not—" You stood as well, frustration clear in your voice. "Why are you being like this? I'm trying to tell you that our friendship matters to me, that I don't want to just disappear from your life."

"Because it's easier!" The words burst out of Narumi with more force than he'd intended, carrying months of suppressed emotion. "It's easier than pretending that you'll actually have time to think about some kid from an orphanage once you're busy saving the world. It's easier than hoping for letters that will never come and visits that will never happen."

You stared at him, clearly taken aback by his outburst. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence heavy with the weight of everything Narumi had revealed without meaning to.

"Is that really what you think of me?" you asked finally, your voice small and hurt. "That I would just... forget about you?"

The pain in your voice made Narumi's chest ache, but he couldn't take back what he'd said. Couldn't apologize for protecting himself from the inevitable disappointment of abandonment.

"I think you're sixteen years old and about to start the most important chapter of your life," he said quietly. "I think you'll meet new people and face new challenges and build a future that doesn't have room for Friday visits to an orphanage. And that's... that's okay. It's what's supposed to happen."

"I'm tired," he said, cutting off whatever reassurance you were building up to. "Can we just... can we not do this today? I need some time to think."

You looked like you wanted to argue, like you had more to say on the subject. But something in his expression must have convinced you that pushing would only make things worse.

"Okay," you said softly. "But this conversation isn't over."

You gathered your things with careful, deliberate movements, clearly giving him time to change his mind or say something more. But Narumi remained frozen in place, his hands clenched into fists at his sides as he watched you prepare to leave.

This was it, then. The beginning of the end.

He should let you go. Should accept that this was how things had to be, clean and final and rational. You would walk out that door and continue building your impressive life, and he would remain here in this liminal space between childhood and whatever came next, carrying the memory of your kindness like a secret treasure.

But as you shouldered your bag and turned toward the exit, something desperate and reckless unfurled in Narumi's chest. The careful emotional distance he'd been trying to maintain crumbled all at once, leaving him raw and exposed and terrifyingly vulnerable.

He couldn't let you leave like this. Not when there were so many things unsaid between you, not when this might be his last chance to—

"Wait."

The word escaped him before conscious thought could intervene, sharp and urgent in the quiet common room. You stopped immediately, turning back with surprise written across your features.

Narumi's heart was hammering against his ribs as he took a shaky step forward, then another. The younger children who'd been scattered around the room seemed to sense the shift in atmosphere, quietly migrating toward other activities and leaving the two of you in relative privacy.

"Wait," he repeated, quieter this time but no less intense. His hands were trembling—when had they started trembling?—and he shoved them deep into his pockets to hide the evidence of his emotional state.

"Narumi?" Your voice was gentle, concerned, but you made no move to come closer. Waiting for him to find whatever words were struggling to break free from his chest.

He stood there for a long moment, caught between the safety of silence and the terrifying possibility of honesty. Everything rational in his mind was screaming at him to step back, to let you go, to protect himself from the inevitable pain of hoping for something impossible.

But looking at you—really looking at your face, at the genuine care and confusion in your eyes—Narumi realized that the pain of never trying might be worse than the pain of rejection.

"I..." he started, then stopped, his voice catching on the magnitude of what he wanted to say. How did you tell someone they'd become your whole world? How did you explain that their weekly visits had transformed from pleasant distraction to vital necessity?

You waited, patient as always, giving him the space to stumble toward whatever truth was clawing its way out of his throat.

"The Defense Force training," he said finally, the words coming out stilted and awkward. "How long is it?"

"The basic training program is eighteen months," you replied carefully, clearly uncertain where this line of questioning was heading. "Then there's specialized training depending on your assignment, which can be another six months to two years."

Two to three and a half years. Narumi's mind raced through calculations—he'd be fifteen or sixteen by the time you finished training. Still younger than you, still probably too young for whatever he was thinking, but closer. Less impossibly distant than the gap that existed now.

"And after that?" he pressed, taking another step closer. "What happens after training?"

"Well, that depends on a lot of factors. Your performance, the needs of the organization, personal preferences..." You tilted your head, studying his face with that thoughtful expression he'd come to treasure. "Why are you asking?"

This was it. The moment of truth, the point of no return. Narumi could feel his pulse pounding in his ears as he forced himself to meet your eyes directly.

"Because I want you to wait for me."

The words hung in the air between you, bold and desperate and completely insane. Narumi immediately felt heat flood his face as the magnitude of what he'd just said hit him. Had he really just asked you—brilliant, accomplished, sixteen-year-old you—to put your life on hold for a twelve-year-old orphan with an inappropriate crush?

Your eyes widened in genuine shock. "Narumi..."

"I know how it sounds," he rushed on, his voice cracking with emotion and adolescent uncertainty. "I know I'm just some kid and you're about to start this amazing career and I have no right to ask anything of you. But I..." He swallowed hard, forcing himself to continue. "I think I like you."

The confession hung between you like a live wire, crackling with dangerous energy. Narumi immediately wanted to take it back, to retreat into safer territory, but it was too late now. The truth was out there, raw and honest and completely terrifying.

"You think you like me?" you repeated slowly, your voice carefully neutral.

"I know I do," Narumi corrected, his voice growing stronger even as his hands continued to shake. "I know it's crazy and probably just some pathetic kid's first crush, but I can't help it. You're... you're the best thing that's ever happened to me."

You stared at him for what felt like an eternity, your expression cycling through surprise, confusion, and something else he couldn't quite identify. When you finally spoke, your voice was gentler than he'd expected.

"Narumi, you're twelve years old."

"I know." The words came out sharper than he'd intended, defensive in the way he always got when people pointed out his age as if it invalidated everything he felt. "I know I'm twelve and you're sixteen and that makes this weird and impossible. I know you probably think I'm just some confused kid who doesn't understand the difference between friendship and romance."

"That's not—"

"But I do understand," he continued, unable to stop now that he'd started. "I understand that you're going to leave and become this incredible Defense Force officer and probably meet someone amazing who's actually age-appropriate and accomplished and everything I'm not. I understand that asking you to wait for me is selfish and unrealistic."

Narumi took one more step closer, close enough now that he could see the flecks in your eyes, close enough to catch the faint scent of your perfume.

"But I'm asking anyway," he said quietly. "Because in three years I'll be fifteen, and in five years I'll be seventeen, and maybe by then the age difference won't matter so much. Maybe by then I'll be someone worth waiting for."

The silence that followed was deafening. Narumi could hear his own heartbeat, could feel the weight of your gaze as you processed his impossible request. He'd laid everything bare, offered up his heart with trembling hands, and now all he could do was wait for you to decide whether to cherish it or crush it.

"You want me to wait five years," you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

"I want you to give us a chance," Narumi replied, his voice steadier now that the worst of the confession was behind him. "I want you to consider the possibility that what I feel for you might be real, even if I'm young. I want..." He swallowed hard, gathering the last of his courage. "I want you to think about whether you might be able to feel something for me too, someday."

You were quiet for a long moment, your eyes never leaving his face. Narumi held his breath, suspended between hope and terror as he waited for your response.

"You really mean this," you said, and it wasn't quite a question.

"I've never meant anything more in my life."

Something shifted in your expression then, surprise giving way to a kind of wonder that made Narumi's chest tight with desperate hope. You reached out slowly, carefully, as if approaching a wild animal that might bolt at any sudden movement.

When your fingers brushed against his head, Narumi's breath caught in his throat. Your touch was warm and soft and everything he'd dreamed about during those lonely nights in the dormitory.

"You're so young," you murmured, but there was no dismissal in your voice. Instead, there was something that sounded almost like regret.

"I won't always be," Narumi said, leaning slightly into your touch despite himself. "And you... you won't always be so far ahead of me."

You studied his face with that intense focus he'd come to associate with your chess games, as if you were trying to see several moves ahead into a future neither of you could quite imagine.

"Five years is a long time," you said finally. "A lot can change. We'll both change."

"I know." Narumi's voice was barely audible, but his gaze never wavered from yours. "But some things don't change. Some things are worth waiting for."

The moment stretched between you, heavy with possibility and the weight of an impossible decision. Narumi could see the internal struggle playing out across your features—logic warring with something else, something that made his heart race with desperate hope.

Finally, incredibly, you smiled. It was a small, uncertain thing, but it transformed your entire face in a way that made Narumi feel like he might actually float off the ground.

"You know what?" you said, your voice carrying a note of wonder that suggested you couldn't quite believe what you were about to say. "Okay."

"Okay?" Narumi's voice cracked on the word, hope and disbelief tangling in his chest.

"I'll wait," you said, and now your smile was growing brighter, more confident. "I mean, I can't promise that I'll still feel the same way in five years, or that you will. But... but you're right. You won't always be twelve, and I won't always be sixteen. And maybe..." You paused, seeming to gather your own courage. "Maybe there's something here worth exploring, when we're both ready for it."

Narumi felt something break open in his chest, a flood of emotion so intense it left him dizzy. You were saying yes. Not to romance, not now, but to possibility. To the chance that someday, when the timing was right, you might look at him and see not just the lonely orphan boy but someone worthy of your love.

"Really?" he whispered, afraid that speaking too loudly might shatter this fragile moment.

"Really," you confirmed, your hand still warm against his head. "But I have conditions."

"Anything," Narumi said immediately, and he meant it. He would agree to anything that kept this possibility alive.

"You have to promise me that you'll focus on building your own life," you said seriously. "I don't want you putting everything on hold waiting for me. Get good grades, make friends, figure out who you want to be outside of this... whatever this is between us. Can you do that?"

Narumi nodded eagerly. "I promise."

"And you have to understand that I can't make any guarantees about how I'll feel when I see you again. People change, Narumi. What seems important at sixteen might not matter at twenty-one."

"I understand," he said, though privately he was certain that his feelings for you would never change, never fade. "But what if they don't? Change, I mean. What if we both still..."

"Then we'll figure it out when that time comes," you said gently. "But for now, this has to be enough. This promise, this possibility. Can you live with that?"

Could he live with the faint hope of someday rather than the crushing certainty of never? Could he survive on the promise of your consideration rather than demanding your immediate affection?

Looking into your eyes, seeing the genuine care and cautious optimism there, Narumi knew he could live with anything as long as it meant you'd be part of his future.

"Yes," he said simply. "I can live with that."

Your smile was radiant, transforming your entire face in a way that made Narumi's heart stutter in his chest. For just a moment, he allowed himself to imagine what it would be like when you looked at him that way because you loved him back, because he was finally old enough and accomplished enough to deserve it.

"Then it's a deal," you said, extending your hand formally as if you were sealing a business arrangement rather than making the most important promise of his young life.

Narumi took your hand without hesitation, marveling at how perfectly it fit in his despite the size difference. Your skin was warm and soft, and he wanted to memorize every detail of this contact before you pulled away.

"Five years," he said, testing the words on his tongue.

"Five years," you agreed. "Give or take."

You held his gaze for another moment, and Narumi thought he saw something flicker there—affection, maybe, or the beginning of something deeper. But then you were stepping back, creating physical distance even as you maintained the emotional connection you'd just established.

"I should go," you said, glancing toward the door where Sister Margaret was making pointed gestures about visiting hours. "But I'll see you next week? For our last few visits?"

"You'll still come?" Narumi asked, unable to hide the relief in his voice.

"Of course I'll still come. We're friends, aren't we? Even if..." you gestured vaguely between the two of you, "even if there's this other thing too."

Friends. And something more, something with the potential to become everything he'd ever wanted. It wasn't perfect, wasn't the immediate reciprocation his heart craved, but it was infinitely more than he'd had that morning.

"Yeah," Narumi said, his voice steady despite the emotional upheaval of the last few minutes. "We're friends."

You shouldered your bag again, this time with none of the sad finality that had characterized your earlier departure attempt. Instead, there was something almost celebratory in your movements, as if you'd just made a decision that excited rather than worried you.

"Take care of yourself, Narumi," you said as you headed toward the exit. "And remember—focus on your own life first. I want to see what amazing things you accomplish while I'm gone."

He watched you walk away, his heart full to bursting with hope and determination and the overwhelming magnitude of your promise. You paused at the door to look back at him one last time, your smile soft and fond and full of possibilities.

"See you Friday," you called out, and then you were gone, leaving Narumi standing alone in the common room with his heart racing and his entire future suddenly, brilliantly rewritten.

Five years. He could do five years. He could become someone worthy of your love in five years.

After all, he'd already waited twelve years for you to walk into his life.

What was five more?

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